st come--soon--when emotion would level his failing reserve, his
falling defences. He thrilled at the thought of the inevitable
disclosure. Would she fight against it, deny, satirize his tumult; or
surrender? He couldn't see clearly into that; he didn't care. Then he
wondered about the premonition of which she had spoken, deciding to ask
her to be more explicit.

An opportunity occurred later. Gilbert Penny had gone down to the Forge
store, his wife had disappeared. Ludowika Winscombe and Howat were
seated in the drawing room. Only a stand of candles was lit at her
elbow; her face floated like a pale and lovely wafer against the
billowing shadows of the chamber. The wood on the iron hearth was
charring without flame. He questioned her bluntly, suddenly, out of a
protracted silence. She regarded him speculatively, delaying answer.
Then, "I couldn't tell you like this, now; it would be too silly; you
would laugh at me. I hadn't meant to say even what I did. I'd prefer to
ignore it."

"What did you mean, what premonition came to you?" he insisted crudely.

She seemed to draw away from him, increase in years and an attitude of
tolerant amusement. Only an immediate reply would save them, he
realized. He leaned forward unsteadily, with clenched hands. "I warned
you," she proceeded lightly; "and if you do laugh my pride will suffer."
In spite of her obvious determination to speak indifferently her voice
grew serious, "I had a feeling that you mustn't kiss me, that
this--America, the Province, Myrtle Forge, you, were for something
different. You see, I had always longed for a peculiar experience,
release, and when it came, miraculously, I thought, it must not be
spoiled, turned into the old, old thing. That was all. It was in my
spirit," she added almost defiantly, as if that claim might too be
susceptible of derision.

He settled back into his chair, turning upon her a gloomy vision.
Whatever penalty threatened them, he knew, must fall. Nothing existing
could keep him from it. He felt a fleet sorrow for her in the inevitable
destruction of the release for which she had so long searched, her new
peace, so soon to be smashed. All sorrow for himself had gone under.
Isabel Penny returned to the drawing room, and moved about, her flowered
silk at once gay and obscure in the semidarkness. "The fire, Howat," she
directed; "it's all but out." He stirred the logs into a renewed blaze.

A warm gilding flickered over Ludowika; she s